Fratricide
by thatarchitect
Summary: Meaning 'the act of killing one's brother or sister'. Warning: spoilers for series 4, character death and mild bad language.


_Euros Holmes is crazy_.

That's all you can think. _Euros is crazy – she made me a murderer and she's going to make Sherlock one too.  
_  
Sherlock is holding the gun tensely, aiming at Mycroft's forehead.

His own brother. He's going to kill his own brother instead of you. You don't even have it in you to be happy that Sherlock loves you more (if Sherlock can even love) because he's about to commit murder – commit fratricide.

'Not in the face, please,' Mycroft deadpans. 'I promised my brain to the Royal Society.'

'Where would you suggest?' Sherlock asks, almost casually, as if they were discussing this over tea.

'Well, I suppose there is a heart somewhere inside me,' Mycroft replies, sighing. He loosens his tie, as if trying to make his heart an easier target. Sherlock lowers the gun, aiming towards Mycroft's chest.

Your eyes widen. Shit. Is he really going to do this? This is crazy.

Sherlock's hand trembles.

You shudder as Moriarty continues with his ridiculous 'tick tock' sounds in the background. Euros is smiling on the screen, with an expression that is smug, fascinated and pure evil all at once. You're not much of a violent person (well, only sometimes) but you would hurt her if you were currently able to. She's a psychopath; she's an abomination.

'No,' you groan, barely able to watch. 'Don't do this, please, Sherlock. Shoot me.'

Sherlock can't take it. He moves his finger an inch or so, towards the trigger. Mycroft is still looking his brother straight in the eyes, looking both unafraid and regretful.

You lunge forward, about to tackle the detective to the ground, but he shoots before you can reach him.

The gunshot is deafening.

You finish the tackle, landing on top of Sherlock and making him drop the gun. He gives a kind of desperate, guilty dry sob and, before you can be sympathetic, you punch him in the face.

'YOU IDIOT! YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER COWARD! How could you – I told you not to shoot –'

Mycroft makes a kind of strangled, gasping sound. You leap off of Sherlock immediately and go to Mycroft's side. It seems that Sherlock's aim was not quite perfect. Instead he had shot Mycroft in the stomach, unintentionally making it more painful for him. A shot to the heart would have killed Mycroft before he could even blink. A shot to the heart would have been kinder.

You take you jacket off and use it to put pressure on the wound, knowing as you look at it that there's no point anyway. Suddenly, Mycroft's face merges into Mary's and you're back in the aquarium, watching your wife die.

The blood starts to soak through your jacket and you blink the tears back.

'J… _Jesus_ , Sherlock!'

'You're a … good man, Doctor Watson,' Mycroft manages.

'Everything's going to be just fine, ok?' you say, reverting to your doctor-comforting-dying-patient mode. 'I can help you.'

'Don't – lie to me, John.'

You don't reply, and in the silence you hear the echo of the gunshot ringing in your ears. Sherlock kneels down beside you, and you don't even have it in you to be mad at him anymore. He did what was necessary; today you're soldiers.

'I'm s–' Sherlock starts

'I forgive you,' Mycroft interrupts, and winces at the pain. 'All … my fault.'

Before, you were blaming Mycroft for what had happened. After all, he had given Euros and Moriarty five minutes of time together, unsupervised. This was the result – the death of five people, and now Mycroft's own death. But now you just blame Euros. She was sick, twisted. _She_ deserved to be dead, not Mycroft.

Mycroft breathes in harshly, and chokes. He reaches a bloody hand up and puts it on the side of Sherlock's face. A tear slides down from Sherlock's eye and mixes with drops of blood.

'You were… always the clever one,' Mycroft laments, and he coughs up some blood. You feel him spasm beneath your hand placed over his wound.

Sherlock shakes his head, dark curly hair flying wildly, for once in his life speechless.

Mycroft's hand falls and he goes still.

Sherlock's eyes are haunted and traumatised, and his lips are trembling. You used to wish Sherlock would just shut up once in a while. Now you wish he would say anything, anything at all to let you know what he was feeling.

Euros' voice comes over the speaker. 'That was beautiful,' she sighs, and you look to the screen to see her eyes sparkling with some kind of fucked-up pleasure. 'I wish Jim were here. He would have loved to have seen this.'

Sherlock stumbles to the corner of the room and vomits what little food he has left in him.

'That was _not_ beautiful,' Euros complains childishly.

You breathe in and out, trying to calm yourself down, trying to be brave. 'Come on, Euros, we've finished your twisted game. Now let us go.'

She smirks. 'No, you haven't finished yet, Dr Watson.'

Suddenly you feel a sharp pain in the back of your neck, and your vision starts to turn blue and starry. You lift a hand to feel the back of your neck. A tranquilizer dart.

As you collapse, you hear Euros saying in a sing-song voice 'Say hi to Redbeard from me!'


End file.
